Plaude Vignettes
by SHGCat
Summary: A series of several very short Peter/Claude stories, loosely related. For mature audiences only.
1. Downfall

Claude stalked down the street, hands dipping into purses as he walked, eyes roaming, picking out likely looking targets. He saw everyone, everything, but no one saw him. He was no one, and he liked that.

He heard the yell, of course, even if he didn't particularly care about it. The best he could usually muster was detached interest.

It was only when he felt the hand on his shoulder that he finally stopped and spun around to find bright green eyes staring into his.

Someone _saw _him. He wasn't no-one anymore.

And at that moment, he fell, hard and fast, and knew there was no going back.

What he didn't know, was that those eyes would be his downfall.


	2. Never Enough

It will never be enough, never, no matter how much Claude teaches them, how hard he tries. They fall, in the end, or sacrifice themselves--which is maybe the same thing.

The boy doesn't understand this, doesn't realize that Claude won't always be there, won't always be watching over him, teaching, guiding. He won't always be there to correct, to lead. And he won't always be there at night when the training's done, won't be there to touch and caress, won't be there to love.

The empath just accepts the training and the touches and the love, never thinking (maybe never letting himself think) that one day it will end.

Claude won't always be there because he will fall, in the end, or he'll sacrifice himself--which is maybe the same thing. He will, or Peter will, and it will all be for nothing.

And no matter how much he teaches him, how hard he tries, it will never, ever be enough.


	3. Comfort

Claude's never been good at giving comfort, but he tries, for Peter's sake. As soon as Claude sees him, hurt and grief-stricken, all the spark gone from his eyes, he has to try. He feels so awkward, with his arms wrapped tightly around the boy's shaking body, Peter's head buried in his shoulder, his fists clenching in the front of Claude's shirt. It's like they don't quite fit together the way they should. Then Peter begins to sob and Claude forgets about the placement of elbows and hands and heads and bodies and holds Peter closer, murmuring soothing nonsense into his hair.

And maybe he isn't good at it, but he tries, and –for Peter, at least– that's enough.


	4. Normal

Peter stares into an empty beer bottle and wonders bitterly how long it's been since he felt normal. Certainly it was long before Claude barged into his life and his bed, with his British accent and acerbic wit, and turned his emotions inside out.

He doesn't know quite what it is that they have; it's more than sex and less than love and closer to an addiction than anything Peter's ever encountered. It's everything and it's nothing, and it means so much and so little and all the unnamed feelings in between.

Peter doesn't know how long it can go on; this insane physical and emotional rollercoaster that they've gotten caught up in. But neither one of them is willing to make it stop to get off, and it's going to keep picking up speed until it crashes, and takes them with it.

And nothing will ever be normal again.


	5. About Love

Sex with Claude isn't always about desire

(_A feral grin that leaves peter's knees weak, then long, breathless kisses down Peter's neck and chest and stomach, and lower until Peter comes, crying out Claude's name and clawing at the bedclothes. The grin never leaves Claude's face._),

or tenderness

(_Claude is lifting Peter's hips and sliding into him, staring down into Peter's eyes as he thrusts, never speaking, hardly making any noise at all, his piercing blue gaze telling Peter everything the empath needs to know. And when he comes, finally, it's with Peter's name on his lips, whispered like a prayer. _),

or even lust

(_Peter on his hands and knees, Claude behind him, one hand gripping Peter's hips, the other working between his legs as they move together in a frantic rhythm until Peter comes so hard he sees stars behind his eyes and Claude does the same not long after_).

Sometimes it's as much about anger and frustration as anything else.

(_Bending Peter over a chair or a table or a railing and fucking him deep and hard; hard enough that it can't be anything but painful. Peter comes anyway, always: he can't help it, can't stop it, so he bites back a scream and closes his eyes and wishes he didn't need this as much as Claude does. Afterwards Claude never meets his eyes, just kisses the side of his neck gently like an apology, and vanishes for the rest of the night._)

Sometimes it's about control…

(_Peter pulling experimentally at knots he could untie but doesn't quite dare, while Claude grins above him, teasing Peter with hands and mouth until Peter breaks down and starts begging, whimpering, pleading with Claude to fuck him. Sometimes Claude does, and Peter comes so hard he sees stars; and sometimes he doesn't, leaving Peter unsatisfied and frustrated to the point of tears—for awhile at least. Whatever happens, its Claude's decision. He's the one in control._)

Or punishment.

((_Claude's fingers tangle viciously in Peter's hair, twisting harshly, forcing Peter's mouth down over his cock and thrusting *hard*._ _Peter whimpers softly and clenches his fists in the sheets of his bed to keep from clutching at Claude's thighs. He'd feel hurt and used if it weren't for the waves of fear coming off of Claude; fear for Peter, that one day his stupidity will get him killed, that Claude won't be there to save him. _Can't lose you, not you_, Claude thinks as an orgasm rips through his body. He hisses out Peter's name from between clenched teeth and pulls Peter up to him, enfolding him in a crushing embrace. Peter buries his face in Claude's shoulder and trembles like a child. "I'm sorry." He whispers, and Claude just holds him more tightly. "Don't fuck up again," he replies, and his words are harsh but his voice is quiet and says something else altogether.)_

But no matter what it is, what it means, what either of them get from it, it's always, always about love.


End file.
